


“Nightmares’ - MH

by Writer_Of_Life



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 02:34:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18064916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writer_Of_Life/pseuds/Writer_Of_Life
Summary: Mycroft has been plagued with nightmares about losing his little brother. An unexpected visit helps him deal with his emotions.





	“Nightmares’ - MH

He awoke in a cold sweat. His monogrammed pajamas sticking to his damp skin, his hair ruffled from tossing and turning.  
Nightmares. Again.  
He breathed and laid back down into the silk sheets currently gracing his king sized bed.  
_Sherlock._  
He could still see his face covered in blood, laying still on the cold, metal table in the morgue at St. Barts Hospital.  
_Not Sherlock, please. Me instead._  
He had begged the emptiness of the room. He never begged, but for his little brother— anything.  
Before he was aware of it, his hand was on his mobile, calling the one person he knew would not judge him for his unreasonable fears.  
It was picked up on the first ring, but before the other could answer, Mycroft spoke.  
“Lestrade?”  
The politician could hear the springs squeak as the Detective Inspector sat up in bed, wide awake now.  
“Mr. Holmes? Is there a problem, sir?”  
A smile graced his lips at the respect even after being awakened at 2 a.m. on a work night.  
“Lestrade — Gregory, my brother — I need to know — I —,” Mycroft halted his words trying to figure out how to ask the policeman for the information he needed.  
Greg breathed a sigh of relief.  
“Sherlock is fine,” Greg said. “I left him not two hours ago in the very capable arms of Dr. Watson. They were retiring for the evening. Safe and sound, I locked the door myself on my way out.”  
Mycroft instantly relaxed at the words.  
His brother was alive and safe. The word of the Inspector was gospel to him. The “minor” government official was still trying to figure that phenomenon out. He only trusted a small handful of people, all but one was family. And Dr. Watson would give in to the temptation of his brother sooner or later.  
“If you want,” came the very tired voice on the other end of the line. “I can go check on Baker Street, just to make sure. If it’ll help you sleep. It’ll only take me a few moments to —”  
Mycroft interrupted him.  
“No, that’s quite alright, Inspector,” he said. “If you say he is safe, then he is safe.”  
That statement took Greg by surprise.  
“Are you sure?” He asked. Silence. “Mycroft?”  
After a long moment, Mycroft sighed.  
“I apologize for waking you at this hour. Thank you for your time, Inspector. Good night.”  
Mycroft rang off before Greg could tell him it wasn’t a problem.

Mycroft put his mobile on the table beside the bed and got up, knowing that only nightmares awaited him should he attempt sleep again.  
He showered and pulled on fresh pajamas and a robe, slipping his phone into his pocket.  
Making his way downstairs to the kitchen, he flicked on the lights and proceeded to make himself a strong cup of tea. He needed something stronger, but he let that temptation fall to the wayside. Drinking alone was not the best idea.  
At half past three, he was roused from his thoughts by the sudden ringing of his doorbell.  
Visions of a bloody Sherlock, laying dead before his eyes slammed into him and he almost lost his ability to stand.  
Please, don’t take him from me.  
Again the bell rang and he stood, pulled his robe tighter around him and tied the belt.  
He pressed the button on the door camera and gasped.  
Detective Inspector Lestrade stood on his doorstep, hair ruffled from the snow and eyes tired.  
Immediately, he turned off the alarm and opened the door.  
“Detective Inspector?”  
Greg smiled at him and held up a bottle of vintage scotch.  
“I couldn’t sleep and you sounded like you might be having the same problem,” he said, then when Mycroft did not move to let him in, he began to second guess himself. “I mean, if you don’t want company —”  
The posh man realized that he was staring and suddenly stepped to the side.  
“I’m sorry, Inspector, please come in,” he said, still wondering why Gregory would have taken the time to check on him. Because that is what he was doing — Mycroft wasn’t blind. “I apologize for my state of dress.”  
Greg shoo’d away Mycroft’s apology easily and moved toward the open room.  
“This has been sitting in my cabinet since I was promoted to D.I., so I thought it might be time to open it,” he said, smiling as he allowed Mycroft to lead him into the kitchen. “Doesn’t do to drink alone on a night like this.”  
Mycroft stopped at his words, turning to look at him.  
“Indeed.”

Two tumblers were pulled down from the shelf and the D.I. slowly opened the bottle, handing it to the politician.  
Mycroft poured two glasses and handed one to Greg.  
“Shall we?” He asked, placing a hand on the small of Greg’s back to show him to the sitting room.  
Greg’s face warmed at the touch and Mycroft tried not to notice the small smile playing across the Inspector’s lips.  
They took their seats in the twin high-back chairs in front of the crackling fire.  
“Oh,” Greg suddenly turned to him. “I detoured by Baker Street. John assures me that Sherlock is sound asleep, safely cuddled in his bed. He also gave me your address, hope you don’t mind.”  
Mycroft visibly relaxed and Greg watched him as he sunk further into the warm leather of the arm chair that had to be older than both of them combined.  
A family heirloom no doubt. Or maybe it just came with the house.  
“This is my family’s home, yes,” Mycroft said without looking at him. “Sherlock and I grew up here.”  
That sentence took Greg’s mind to a whole different level. The idea of the Holmes brothers as small children was almost impossible.  
A soft laugh escaped Greg’s lips before he could stop it.  
“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes,” he said genuinely. “It’s just the thought of tiny Sherlock running across this priceless rug, throwing out deductions about the suits of armor in your dining room is a bit funny.”  
He watched Mycroft smile.  
“Mycroft, please, and yes, Sherlock was quite the disobedient, loud child,” he said, drifting into the memories of his mind. “He would regularly shout deductions to anyone listening. He made his first announcement at four and has yet to cease in his need to be the center of attention.”  
Greg smiled and took another sip of the scotch.  
The smile faded when he saw Mycroft’s face contort into something akin to pain.  
“He was 14 the first time he overdosed,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I found him curled in my bed, barely breathing, begging me for help.”  
_Please brother, I miscalculated. I just wanted the itch to stop. I needed something to help with the rot. Please, Myc._  
_Myc._  
“Mycroft?” Gregory reached forward and covered the younger man’s hand.  
A tear slipped from his eye as he turned to face the D.I.  
“I’m sorry, Inspector —”  
“Greg.”  
Mycroft smiled.  
“Gregory,” he tried again. “I’m sorry for letting my emotions get out of hand. I haven’t slept well lately.”  
Greg nodded, but did not remove his hand.  
“Sherlock been on your mind?”  
Mycroft nodded and tasted his scotch, letting the burn of the alcohol and the warmth of Greg’s hand ground him.  
“Nightmares?”  
Again, he nodded.  
“Want to talk about them?”  
Greg leaned forward, gripping Mycroft’s hand a little tighter.  
Mycroft looked down at their hands and then slowly raised his eyes to those of the Inspector.  
He never showed this much emotion to others. It was too dangerous, too much of a risk. But, Gregory was different, somehow. He didn’t know what the feeling in his chest meant just yet, but he feared that if he let this conversation continue, he would find out weather he liked it or not. It seemed the decade he has spent watching the Inspector protect and encourage his little brother had begun to take its toll. Their regular meetings, emails and texts about Sherlock had long since stopped focusing solely on the younger Holmes. Dr. Watson had been the making of his little brother after all.

Everything in him screamed at him to keep his feelings, his fears, his blood-drenched dreams to himself, but seeing the sheer depth of concern — and was that affection — in Gregory’s eyes, Mycroft decided he was too tired to fight anymore.  
“Please.”  
At that one word, Greg put down his glass and moved to the foot stool in front of Mycroft’s chair.  
“Sherlock is safe, I promise you,” he said, taking the glass from Mycroft and putting it down. Then collecting that hand in his as well. “Talk to me, Mycroft.”  
The younger man looked at the Inspector and suddenly tears were running down his face.  
Momentarily overwhelmed, Mycroft made to remove himself from Greg’s view, but the D.I. held his hands tighter.  
“Mycroft, please talk to me.”  
Another long moment passed as he stared at Gregory holding his hands. He had not had that pleasure since he was a child.  
“It is always the same. Sherlock, covered in blood, laying dead on a slab in a hospital. Though I try, I am never able to pin down exactly how he died — that, I think is a large part of the horror,” he paused, clearly trying to decide how much to trust the Inspector. “Then, suddenly I am overcome with the thought that my little brother is dead and I am left with the idea that I could have saved him if I would have tried just a little harder. He is dead because I failed him and that is not something that I can live with. I beg God to give him back to me. I beg God to allow me to take his place. I beg, Gregory. I beg and still my little brother lays there on that cold table. He doesn’t deserve that, Gregory. He deserves a home with someone who cares for him, not a cold slab in the basement of some dirty public hospital.”  
Tears were streaming down his face as his fears tumbled from his mouth.  
“I can’t lose him, Gregory. I have to keep his heart beating. I’ll do anything. Anything, Gregory. I swear I would watch England burn before I allowed someone to put their hands on Sherlock. I swear it — I —”  
Greg suddenly pulled Mycroft into his arms and held him tightly against his chest as the younger man allowed the emotions to rack his body. As they slowed, Greg pulled him back gently.  
“If that day ever comes, where you have to put Sherlock above everything else, please know that I will be there to help you fight,” he said, holding Mycroft’s red-rimmed gaze with his fingers gently pressing under his chin. “I promise.”

Mycroft could feel the surprise on Gregory’s lips as he surged forward to capture them in a gentle kiss.  
The Detective Inspector quickly recovered and pulled Mycroft closer to him, deepening the kiss.  
After a few moments, the couple separated and Mycroft smiled as he pulled their foreheads together.  
“Thank you, Gregory,” he said, truly smiling. “You have no idea how thankful I am for your place in my brother’s life. The day you declined my offer to spy on him, I was finally able to allow myself to believe that Sherlock may just live to see 40 and now he is less than a year away from it. Amazing.”  
Greg placed a quick, gentle kiss on Mycroft’s lips before sitting back and reaching for his scotch.  
“I am lucky to have him,” he said, and you, he added in his head. “He has saved my arse a lot more than I have saved his. Plus, now that he has his doctor, I am afraid we may have to deal with his loud public displays well into our old age.”  
Mycroft openly grinned at his words.  
“One can only hope.”  
The antique clock on the wall chimed four times and the D.I. thought maybe it was time to attempt sleep once again. He had work in just a few hours.  
“Take tomorrow off, Gregory,” Mycroft said, seemingly reading his mind. “You need to rest.”  
The D.I. smiled at the younger man and stood, pulling Mycroft with him.  
“You should do the same,” Greg said, pulling Mycroft into his arms, nuzzling into his neck. “Will you be OK to sleep now?”  
A shiver ran through Mycroft at the thought of seeing his little brother dead in front of him again.  
“Gregory?” Mycroft said as the D.I. made to move towards the door. “Stay. Please.”  
Greg smiled at him as he dropped his coat back onto the rack.  
“I thought you would never ask.”  
Mycroft reached for his hand silently asking him to follow.  
Up the stairs and third door on the left, Mycroft gently guided Gregory into his bedroom.

After a quick change into borrowed pajamas and a trip to the bathroom to brush his teeth, he joined Mycroft in the bedroom once again. The confidence fueled by the excellent scotch had faded and now he was about to climb into bed with the British Government and he was absolutely fine with it.  
“Gregory,” Mycroft called from the bed. “Join me?”  
A slight blush grew across Greg’s cheeks as he slid into the large four poster bed with Mycroft Holmes.  
He quickly got over his slight embarrassment and pulled the younger man into his arms and flicked off the bed side lamp, enveloping them in complete darkness.  
“Good night, Gregory,” Mycroft said, finding his place in the crook of Greg’s neck.  
Greg kissed his forehead and pulled him tighter.  
“I’ve got you Myc,” he said. “Sherlock is safe and so are you.”  
A small, dry sob escaped Mycroft’s throat and Greg kissed him once more before closing his eyes in the hopes of sleep.

Mycroft woke up to the stream of light cutting through the curtains beside the bed. He was warm and content. Safe. He could not remember a time in recent history that he had slept so well.  
“Good morning, gorgeous,” Greg said, pulling Mycroft close and kissing his temple. “Sleep OK?”  
Pulling himself up, he hovered over the older man before leaning down to kiss him deeply. Morning breath be damned.  
“The best sleep I have had in decades,” he said, watching as a large smile spread over Greg’s handsome face. “The effect you have on me is quite intriguing. I may not be able to be without it.”  
Greg leaned up and kissed him again, caressing the back of his neck and running his fingers through the auburn strands located there.  
“You won’t have to, gorgeous,” Greg said, pulling Mycroft back into his arms. “I’m planning on sticking around for as long as you will allow me.”  
Mycroft snuggled closer.  
“Well then,” Mycroft whispered. “How does forever sound?”  
Greg grinned as he pulled Mycroft close.  
“It sounds perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m new to the Mystrade ship, but I wanted to do my part. I hope you all enjoy this little scattering of words. Comments/criticisms are always welcome.
> 
> Also, I know that Mycroft is OOC, but I love an emotional/out of control Mycroft Holmes. It’s my weakness. I apologize now.


End file.
